Darth Vato - The Grampus Gets a Bath
On the way home from our show in Houston, we gave the Grampus a bath. Eric got one, too. Music by The Ziggens.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
"Vegetarian Mumbo Jumbo"*
There is this vegan restaurant in Fort Worth, called the Spiral Diner. I love it. They magically take some vegetable product and make it taste like bacon. The building has this cool retro-diner vibe, the music is either of the world variety or ambient indie, and the waitstaff is for the most part friendly and unobtrusive. It's comprised of what you'd expect--hippyish peace punks with sleeve tattoos, grins and socialist ideas. They share their tips and the restaurant has a sign reminding diners that while the staff are there to help, they are not to be treated as servants. As a former waiter, I can totally appreciate this.
As for their politics, I don't really care one way or the other. Thanks to the trigger-happy oligarchists in the White House, my beliefs have increasingly skewed left, so I don't mind the muted presence of various fliers and get-involved literature lying around, nor am I terribly bothered if one of the staff mentions whatever liberal cause he or she is interested in. So, when the one who waited on me and my girlfriend on Saturday asked if I wanted to get involved with building a free skatepark in Fort Worth, I happily took his email address.
This conversation was a refreshing in light of the server I got on Thursday night. My buddy Cliff and I went there for dinner; we ordered magically meat-like sandwiches, and hummus for an appetizer. What we did not order was thinly-veiled condescension; apparently, you get that for free.
The dude came over and dropped off our hummus.
"Thanks!" I said.
"No problem, man," he said "Listen: do you guys support democracy?"
Now, it's been my experience that when someone like this server broaches the subject of government, the conversation usually doesn't end well. I looked at him fixedly, so as to not roll my eyes.
"Yeah, I'm a fan. Very grateful for it."
"Where do you guys work?"
Ah. A twist. I don't work in oil, I don't cut down old-growth forests, and as I am not president of Nike, I thought I was safe.
"I work at an internet marketing company," I said.
"I work for my family," said Cliff.
"Are your jobs democracies?"
Well what the fuck. Are any? I mean besides the ones had at vegan restaurants? If businesses (and I'm strictly talking about their employees, not shareholders) were democratic, what would get done? I'll bet that tiny indie record labels can get away with equal represenation, but everyone knows that tiny, indie labels don't make any money unless they happen to have something to sell off like Nirvana.
But he was earnestly looking at me, waiting to see how I would deal with his rhetorical trap. And frankly, I failed spectacularly. As you read the next exchange, keep in mind I have a B.A. in poli-sci; allegedly, I know what the word democracy means.
"Yeah, it is."
"So you guys get to vote on all the decisions?"
"No... I mean, we can wear whatever we want, well, we can't wear shorts, I guess. And we have a non-traditional management structure... But no one voted on them, so yeah, it's not really a democracy at all."
Apparently, the idiot half of my brain had wandered out of the Nintendo room and down the hall to my mouth. The logical half must have been on the toilet. I confirmed this later because when I encountered him again, he smelled like Glade air freshner.
"Oh..." he says, eyes hardening in smug satisfaction.
The best I could do was return his forced smile. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh no reason. I'm just trying to start a revolution."
He walked away, basking in his own glowing sanctimony, or at least what I imagined was glowing sanctimony. I could be wrong. He was probably glowing from that bacon magic.
--The Robo-Pirate
*Big points if you know this reference.
As for their politics, I don't really care one way or the other. Thanks to the trigger-happy oligarchists in the White House, my beliefs have increasingly skewed left, so I don't mind the muted presence of various fliers and get-involved literature lying around, nor am I terribly bothered if one of the staff mentions whatever liberal cause he or she is interested in. So, when the one who waited on me and my girlfriend on Saturday asked if I wanted to get involved with building a free skatepark in Fort Worth, I happily took his email address.
This conversation was a refreshing in light of the server I got on Thursday night. My buddy Cliff and I went there for dinner; we ordered magically meat-like sandwiches, and hummus for an appetizer. What we did not order was thinly-veiled condescension; apparently, you get that for free.
The dude came over and dropped off our hummus.
"Thanks!" I said.
"No problem, man," he said "Listen: do you guys support democracy?"
Now, it's been my experience that when someone like this server broaches the subject of government, the conversation usually doesn't end well. I looked at him fixedly, so as to not roll my eyes.
"Yeah, I'm a fan. Very grateful for it."
"Where do you guys work?"
Ah. A twist. I don't work in oil, I don't cut down old-growth forests, and as I am not president of Nike, I thought I was safe.
"I work at an internet marketing company," I said.
"I work for my family," said Cliff.
"Are your jobs democracies?"
Well what the fuck. Are any? I mean besides the ones had at vegan restaurants? If businesses (and I'm strictly talking about their employees, not shareholders) were democratic, what would get done? I'll bet that tiny indie record labels can get away with equal represenation, but everyone knows that tiny, indie labels don't make any money unless they happen to have something to sell off like Nirvana.
But he was earnestly looking at me, waiting to see how I would deal with his rhetorical trap. And frankly, I failed spectacularly. As you read the next exchange, keep in mind I have a B.A. in poli-sci; allegedly, I know what the word democracy means.
"Yeah, it is."
"So you guys get to vote on all the decisions?"
"No... I mean, we can wear whatever we want, well, we can't wear shorts, I guess. And we have a non-traditional management structure... But no one voted on them, so yeah, it's not really a democracy at all."
Apparently, the idiot half of my brain had wandered out of the Nintendo room and down the hall to my mouth. The logical half must have been on the toilet. I confirmed this later because when I encountered him again, he smelled like Glade air freshner.
"Oh..." he says, eyes hardening in smug satisfaction.
The best I could do was return his forced smile. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh no reason. I'm just trying to start a revolution."
He walked away, basking in his own glowing sanctimony, or at least what I imagined was glowing sanctimony. I could be wrong. He was probably glowing from that bacon magic.
--The Robo-Pirate
*Big points if you know this reference.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Would you guys just stick to conspicuous consumption and hos, please?
I'm in week two of my attempt to shrink my beer gut. I've been eating much better (a lot of shrimp, beans and trips to this vegan restaurant), and since the 6th, I've had little more than a couple beers and a few shots of rum. This is in tandem with speedwalking for an hour every day (except for yesterday, due to MLK Day closing a lot of stuff down) at the gym.
As such, I've started watching TV again.
Now this is not to say that I am one of those effete, artistic people who proudly proclaim how they don't watch television. As proof, below is a short list of my favorite TV shows of all time:
G.I. JOE
Roseanne
The Cosby Show
Jeopardy
The Simpsons
Futurama
King of the Hill
Entourage
Firefly (though sadly, I never watched it on TV)
Heroes
In Search Of... (that show with Leonard Nimoy talking about mysteries such as Stonehenge and Shatner's hairpiece--heyo!)
See? There are eleven shows there! So I like TV. I just that I don't have cable and my reception is bad. But since the gym is on TCU's cable network, I end up watching about an hour of TV a day.
Mostly, I watch the news or Simpsons/King of the Hill reruns. If there is a compelling car-rebuild, I flip between Pimp My Ride. On Sunday, I was lucky enough to find Sinbad and That One Time When He Looked for Fabulous Treasure While Fighting Awesome Ray-Harryhausen-Monsters on Turner Classic Movies. This was especially great, because TCM doesn't run commericials during their features (I think--I haven't had cable for a couple years now). Typically, I stay away from music videos,though; this has a little bit to do with the artists but a lot more to do with the fact that it's mostly hip hop videos and hip hop videos are almost universally similar and dumb.
As a case in point, I watched the video for "Cupid's Chokehold," the new single from Gym Class Heroes. Now I like Gym Class Heroes. It's mostly clever hip-hop made for Fall Out Boy fans, which I am not, but whatever. They're cool. And the song is fine. It's basically a grass-is-greener-as-relating-to-girlfriends public service announcement, but the video bothered me because it features perhaps the most irritating trope in the entire history of rap and hip hop videos. I'm talking about the totally lame old white guy trying to prove otherwise.
In this case, the Totally Lame Old White Guy is represented in the visual narrative by the MC Travis McCoy's flashy new girlfriend's (not the original, dependable one he reunites with fifty seconds later) rich, white, turtleneck-and-blazer-wearing father. The poor guy, who looks a little bit like Marvin, Vince's accountant on Entourage, is sitting there having to pretend to like with this pierced-faced, parka wearing, hip hop guy dating his daughter. All he really wants to do is enjoy his martini. And then Travis's boys come in, and they're of course loud and disruptive, and the poor Totally Lame Old White Guy grimaces, and the music switches to some freestyling and beat boxing. But then, when the music switches back, Totally Lame Old White Guy is irrhythmically nodding to the mad beats.
Old Rich White guys aren't that funny, and they're even less funny while trying to be anything other than old, rich and white. In fact, they're really more like the enemy of everyone, from golf caddies to goonies to pants-peeingly hilarious rappers. They are a joke that's been tired at least as long as the old lady mewling out "Rapper's Delight" in The Wedding Singer.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
As such, I've started watching TV again.
Now this is not to say that I am one of those effete, artistic people who proudly proclaim how they don't watch television. As proof, below is a short list of my favorite TV shows of all time:
G.I. JOE
Roseanne
The Cosby Show
Jeopardy
The Simpsons
Futurama
King of the Hill
Entourage
Firefly (though sadly, I never watched it on TV)
Heroes
In Search Of... (that show with Leonard Nimoy talking about mysteries such as Stonehenge and Shatner's hairpiece--heyo!)
See? There are eleven shows there! So I like TV. I just that I don't have cable and my reception is bad. But since the gym is on TCU's cable network, I end up watching about an hour of TV a day.
Mostly, I watch the news or Simpsons/King of the Hill reruns. If there is a compelling car-rebuild, I flip between Pimp My Ride. On Sunday, I was lucky enough to find Sinbad and That One Time When He Looked for Fabulous Treasure While Fighting Awesome Ray-Harryhausen-Monsters on Turner Classic Movies. This was especially great, because TCM doesn't run commericials during their features (I think--I haven't had cable for a couple years now). Typically, I stay away from music videos,though; this has a little bit to do with the artists but a lot more to do with the fact that it's mostly hip hop videos and hip hop videos are almost universally similar and dumb.
As a case in point, I watched the video for "Cupid's Chokehold," the new single from Gym Class Heroes. Now I like Gym Class Heroes. It's mostly clever hip-hop made for Fall Out Boy fans, which I am not, but whatever. They're cool. And the song is fine. It's basically a grass-is-greener-as-relating-to-girlfriends public service announcement, but the video bothered me because it features perhaps the most irritating trope in the entire history of rap and hip hop videos. I'm talking about the totally lame old white guy trying to prove otherwise.
In this case, the Totally Lame Old White Guy is represented in the visual narrative by the MC Travis McCoy's flashy new girlfriend's (not the original, dependable one he reunites with fifty seconds later) rich, white, turtleneck-and-blazer-wearing father. The poor guy, who looks a little bit like Marvin, Vince's accountant on Entourage, is sitting there having to pretend to like with this pierced-faced, parka wearing, hip hop guy dating his daughter. All he really wants to do is enjoy his martini. And then Travis's boys come in, and they're of course loud and disruptive, and the poor Totally Lame Old White Guy grimaces, and the music switches to some freestyling and beat boxing. But then, when the music switches back, Totally Lame Old White Guy is irrhythmically nodding to the mad beats.
Old Rich White guys aren't that funny, and they're even less funny while trying to be anything other than old, rich and white. In fact, they're really more like the enemy of everyone, from golf caddies to goonies to pants-peeingly hilarious rappers. They are a joke that's been tired at least as long as the old lady mewling out "Rapper's Delight" in The Wedding Singer.
I'm just saying is all.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Faith in God renewed by the drunken generosity of SAE's, AKA "Everything's coming up Milhouse!"
I never thought I'd say this, but I was glad to see the frat kids back in the bar last night.
See, on Tuesdays, I check I.D.s, bar-back and mop at my friend's bar. If the joint gets busy enough, I get to jump behind the bar as a third and get the other two bartenders caught up. Then I get tipped out from the other two bartenders, usually doubling my normal take. Of course, it's been about a month since I've had to bartend; school's been out, and the bar has been pretty dead. Luckily, all the kids have to drag their khaki-covered butts to class on the 17th, and they were easing back into form last night.
I like bartending. I've been doing it part time (always as a supplement to whatever 9-5 I've been doing) over the past five years. It's way more fun when you only have to do it for an hour a week. This is because all the things that college kids do to rankle a full-time bartender (not knowing about tipping, getting legendarily plowed, snapping their fingers for drinks, walking tabs, etc.) are not nearly as aggravating when not encountered on a nightly basis. After all, the money I make at the bar is pretty much spending cash anyway.
Except, of course, for this week, when I had three checks floating around in the banking netherworld and the electric bill set to be debted out of my account on Thursday. I was sort of praying to either get a FW Weekly check in the mail or make some extra cash last night, as one of my three New Year's resolutions is to go the entire year without any overdrafts, and I had set myself up to break it two weeks in. Some time after Christmas, I posted an angry, resigned gripe about God, Bush and the war, because my faith at the time was pretty much at a low point. Every so often, however, God does come through in the clutch. Or at least it looks like He does. Granted, college students usually come back to school a week early, and it's easy to call an answer to prayer a coincidence rather than divine benevolence. Ultimately, though, I think life is a little sunnier without a haze of cynicism coloring one's perception. So thanks, God, for sending the college kids (like manna from heaven, if manna were clad in Northface vests and Ducks Unlimited hats) to get drunk and give us their parent's money.
Oh and also, I booked a Sabbath tribute band for my birthday. It's in June, but you know, whatever. You've got to take care of the important stuff in advance.
--The Robo-Pirate
See, on Tuesdays, I check I.D.s, bar-back and mop at my friend's bar. If the joint gets busy enough, I get to jump behind the bar as a third and get the other two bartenders caught up. Then I get tipped out from the other two bartenders, usually doubling my normal take. Of course, it's been about a month since I've had to bartend; school's been out, and the bar has been pretty dead. Luckily, all the kids have to drag their khaki-covered butts to class on the 17th, and they were easing back into form last night.
I like bartending. I've been doing it part time (always as a supplement to whatever 9-5 I've been doing) over the past five years. It's way more fun when you only have to do it for an hour a week. This is because all the things that college kids do to rankle a full-time bartender (not knowing about tipping, getting legendarily plowed, snapping their fingers for drinks, walking tabs, etc.) are not nearly as aggravating when not encountered on a nightly basis. After all, the money I make at the bar is pretty much spending cash anyway.
Except, of course, for this week, when I had three checks floating around in the banking netherworld and the electric bill set to be debted out of my account on Thursday. I was sort of praying to either get a FW Weekly check in the mail or make some extra cash last night, as one of my three New Year's resolutions is to go the entire year without any overdrafts, and I had set myself up to break it two weeks in. Some time after Christmas, I posted an angry, resigned gripe about God, Bush and the war, because my faith at the time was pretty much at a low point. Every so often, however, God does come through in the clutch. Or at least it looks like He does. Granted, college students usually come back to school a week early, and it's easy to call an answer to prayer a coincidence rather than divine benevolence. Ultimately, though, I think life is a little sunnier without a haze of cynicism coloring one's perception. So thanks, God, for sending the college kids (like manna from heaven, if manna were clad in Northface vests and Ducks Unlimited hats) to get drunk and give us their parent's money.
Oh and also, I booked a Sabbath tribute band for my birthday. It's in June, but you know, whatever. You've got to take care of the important stuff in advance.
--The Robo-Pirate
Friday, December 29, 2006
German guy needs to pay better attention. (Joke about a German stereotype included)
I like to poke fun at Germans. I got really excited when I heard the hidden track on NOFX's most recent album, called "Insulted by Germans Again," The chorus goes, "Germans love to insult me/the whole country condescends/we call it arrogance/they call it making friends." Condescending Germans are hilarious. Anyway, Kerry sent me this Reuters story about a German guy who inadvertantly flew to Sydney, Montana while attempting to visit his girlfriend in Australia. The article is mildy amusing, especially given the German reputation for being efficient and meticulous (the kid does find it odd that he would travel to Australia via the US), but I was interested by what the author left out.
As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."
It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."
--The Robo-Pirate
As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."
It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
NorCal, the westernmost province of Redneckistan.
The short of it: went to a bar in my hometown with another hometown expat who lives in San Francisco. Came to the conclusion, in conjunction with evidence observed yesterday, that Northern California is at times just about as country as North Texas is. Thus, for the time being, I will be referring to the place in which I grew up as South Carolodi. Or maybe Lodisiana? I dunno. Pick your favorite. Slowdi is easier to say, but it doesn't convey the same sense of jerkoffs roaring past you in jacked-up F-250s. I mean seriously, it's the same NASCAR hats, same Calvin-pissing-on-whatever stickers, same same tacky goatees. If not for the weather and the scenery, I'd swear I never left cowtown.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Dear God, I hope You're not just making this up as You go along.
After spending a wonderful Christmas morning with my family, I got around to reading my friend's blog. I hadn't been by in a while, and when I ran across the post linked here, I teared up. Fallen soldiers are tragic enough, but when casualities are personified beyond the dreary statistics of a headline, the emotional impact is always heavier.
Our military has suffered nearly 3,000 deaths. On an intellectual level, I understand that dying is an occupational hazard one assumes upon choosing to be a soldier. But that doesn't make stories like the one above any less heartbreaking.
Of course, I want this heartbreak to weigh upon the men who started this war with the same totality as the families of every person killed in battle. And maybe it does. Maybe I'm just sad, angry and presumptuous. Maybe I'm making unfair assumptions about our leaders. After all, what do I know about sacrifice, railing at them from the safety of a suburban home? What do I know about the pressures and guilt of running a country in time of war? How dare I presume to know the heart of men who send others to give their lives for their country? Well, President Bush, I guess I have to give you a pass, because I can't read your mind or hear your heart. But God can. I hope you and He are cool about all this.
And what of that, anyway? Given Bush's public proclamations of faith, I wonder what it is that he and God are actually talking about every morning. I hope he isn't asking for wisdom, because if he is, God doesn't seem to be listening. When I started this post, I was filled with righteous indignation, excited at the prospect of declaring "fuck you, President Bush" in big, bolded, angry capital letters. Now I am just sad and even a little frightened. If the President, whose faith is apparently embedded in his character, can't get an open channel, what hope have we who have lapsed into cynicism and doubt?
Maybe he isn't asking God for wisdom. Maybe he's asking for, I dunno, catfish filets or a cure for hiccups or something. I kinda hope that's the case, because I still like to think that God is a pragmatic being. I expect to get denied when I pray for two aces on a split pair of tens. However, wisdom in times of crisis is a very reasonable request, and I don't think God should be silent when His children come looking for some. I can handle it if this disastrous war is a function of Bush's praying for the wrong things. I am ill at ease, however, if he is praying for an end and God is saying no.
Then again, maybe God is counciling President Bush on the direction of the war. If that's the case, then the universe is way more existential than I am comfortable with.
Sorry to bum anybody out. Appreciate the moments with your family and friends, for God doesn't have a rhyme or reason that makes any sense. Life may turn according to His plan, but that doesn't make it any easier.
--Steve
Our military has suffered nearly 3,000 deaths. On an intellectual level, I understand that dying is an occupational hazard one assumes upon choosing to be a soldier. But that doesn't make stories like the one above any less heartbreaking.
Of course, I want this heartbreak to weigh upon the men who started this war with the same totality as the families of every person killed in battle. And maybe it does. Maybe I'm just sad, angry and presumptuous. Maybe I'm making unfair assumptions about our leaders. After all, what do I know about sacrifice, railing at them from the safety of a suburban home? What do I know about the pressures and guilt of running a country in time of war? How dare I presume to know the heart of men who send others to give their lives for their country? Well, President Bush, I guess I have to give you a pass, because I can't read your mind or hear your heart. But God can. I hope you and He are cool about all this.
And what of that, anyway? Given Bush's public proclamations of faith, I wonder what it is that he and God are actually talking about every morning. I hope he isn't asking for wisdom, because if he is, God doesn't seem to be listening. When I started this post, I was filled with righteous indignation, excited at the prospect of declaring "fuck you, President Bush" in big, bolded, angry capital letters. Now I am just sad and even a little frightened. If the President, whose faith is apparently embedded in his character, can't get an open channel, what hope have we who have lapsed into cynicism and doubt?
Maybe he isn't asking God for wisdom. Maybe he's asking for, I dunno, catfish filets or a cure for hiccups or something. I kinda hope that's the case, because I still like to think that God is a pragmatic being. I expect to get denied when I pray for two aces on a split pair of tens. However, wisdom in times of crisis is a very reasonable request, and I don't think God should be silent when His children come looking for some. I can handle it if this disastrous war is a function of Bush's praying for the wrong things. I am ill at ease, however, if he is praying for an end and God is saying no.
Then again, maybe God is counciling President Bush on the direction of the war. If that's the case, then the universe is way more existential than I am comfortable with.
Sorry to bum anybody out. Appreciate the moments with your family and friends, for God doesn't have a rhyme or reason that makes any sense. Life may turn according to His plan, but that doesn't make it any easier.
--Steve
Feliz navidad!
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and R.I.P., James Brown! Show those stuffy angels what soul really means!
--The Robo-Pirate
--The Robo-Pirate
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The end of my Wooderson phase. Funny pictures and title tags included!
I've been growing beards on and off for the past few years. Once they start to approach gnarly status, I try to trim them, fuck them up and then shave them off. I grow beards partly because I continue to get fatter; beards are good for several things, but they are really good at distracting people from added poundage. In fact, it's possible that Vikings and wizards grew gnarly beards because they were self-conscious about double-chins. Another reason why I grow beards is that they are totally awesome.
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Look, a post! In half-assed list format!
A List of Super-Rare Wishlist Items That You Probably Won't Get No Matter How Good You Are
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The stirrup pants of the '00s
Dear women who insist on wearing gauchos,
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Pauly Shore gets punched out by a redneck in Lubbock.
| Sorry, Pauly, but for once, I'm siding with the redneck. That's what you get for getting Drama kicked out the the Mansion. | |
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Making people on relatively flat expanses of concrete nervous.
Here's a picture of my longboard. You know, in case you're interested. I just like over-using the one piece of html code I know.
--The Robo-Pirate.
--The Robo-Pirate.
A long, boring post about writing comic books. Toward the end, I mention my new skateboard.
I've been very slowly working on my comic book. I used to get annoyed when people said, "Gosh, there just aren't enough hours in the day!" but it turns out it's totally true. This is my third attempt at making sequential art. My first was an original hybrid of Ninja High School and Captain Harlock. I made it in 9th or 10th grade, back when I was obsessed with anime. At the time, you couldn't find it everywhere, so I was limited to the available (and mostly Americanized) manga The Comic Grapevine had in the back shelves. I thought my little three-page story was hilarious back then; it's amusing now because I unwittingly aped most of the same techniques I saw in stuff like Macross and Ranma 1/2. Since Ranma 1/2 occasionally showed boobs, I kept these hidden under junk on a top shelf in my closet. If you were a normal, non-nerdy kid, this is probably similar to where you hid old Playboys. I haven't really thought about that little comic (drawn on typing paper with this runny, expensive roller-ball pen) in a long time until I got into writing the one I'm stuck in now.
Prior to getting off my ass and starting, I read four books about Sequential Art (comics). Two were about writing, one by Denny O'Neil, who wrote and edited various DC titles for millions of years, and the other by Peter David, known to me for his lengthy stint on The Incredible Hulk. I'm partial to this last one because Peter David was mostly a Marvel guy and I'm kind of loyal to that pantheon. Anyway, those were helpful to me in terms of learning how to pace and work in subplots--if you've ever read a How-To-Write-a-Screenplay book, they're pretty similar.
The other two books, however, were a little more esoteric. Written by Scott McCloud, they deal more with the theory behind Sequential Art. While Making Comics focuses more on the craft and is therefore similar to the O'Neil and David books, Understanding Comics is a heady dissertation about what makes comics tick. What's really great is that McCloud writes them in comic-book form.
What I've found out, though, is that now I've almost over-educated to the point of uselessness (you'd think I'd learned my lesson about this already, but whatever). Back in 9th grade, I just told a story. I drew pictures, filled in balloons and channeled my imagination onto 8 1/2 X 11 sheets. It was a lot easier before I knew about things like pacing, decompressed stories and how not to ruin a climax with a talkative ending.
Frankly, it is fucking hard. I imagine this is what learning to walk on two prosthetic legs might be like. Well, that's probably waaaaay harder, but you know what I mean.
In On Writing, Stephen King reiterates that telling the story is the most imperative and important matter when you sit down to write; editing and tightening are what second and third drafts are for. So I try to keep this in mind. And in all fairness to my grownup self, nerdy 14 year old had the advantage of things like Legos and free room and board and actively using his brain on a daily basis. I guess I have to do my best to approximate that context.
Yeah, I know. First post in a week, and it's pretty boring. Well, my friend put together a longboard for me last week, and that's kind of exciting. I've been diligently practicing frontside turns over super-steep 7-degree angles in my apartment parking lot. Yes, I know that's wimpy--I'm old and inflexible, okay? If you're lucky, maybe I'll have pictures. Hopefully not of a trip to the hospital.
--The Robo-Pirate
Prior to getting off my ass and starting, I read four books about Sequential Art (comics). Two were about writing, one by Denny O'Neil, who wrote and edited various DC titles for millions of years, and the other by Peter David, known to me for his lengthy stint on The Incredible Hulk. I'm partial to this last one because Peter David was mostly a Marvel guy and I'm kind of loyal to that pantheon. Anyway, those were helpful to me in terms of learning how to pace and work in subplots--if you've ever read a How-To-Write-a-Screenplay book, they're pretty similar.
The other two books, however, were a little more esoteric. Written by Scott McCloud, they deal more with the theory behind Sequential Art. While Making Comics focuses more on the craft and is therefore similar to the O'Neil and David books, Understanding Comics is a heady dissertation about what makes comics tick. What's really great is that McCloud writes them in comic-book form.
What I've found out, though, is that now I've almost over-educated to the point of uselessness (you'd think I'd learned my lesson about this already, but whatever). Back in 9th grade, I just told a story. I drew pictures, filled in balloons and channeled my imagination onto 8 1/2 X 11 sheets. It was a lot easier before I knew about things like pacing, decompressed stories and how not to ruin a climax with a talkative ending.
Frankly, it is fucking hard. I imagine this is what learning to walk on two prosthetic legs might be like. Well, that's probably waaaaay harder, but you know what I mean.
In On Writing, Stephen King reiterates that telling the story is the most imperative and important matter when you sit down to write; editing and tightening are what second and third drafts are for. So I try to keep this in mind. And in all fairness to my grownup self, nerdy 14 year old had the advantage of things like Legos and free room and board and actively using his brain on a daily basis. I guess I have to do my best to approximate that context.
Yeah, I know. First post in a week, and it's pretty boring. Well, my friend put together a longboard for me last week, and that's kind of exciting. I've been diligently practicing frontside turns over super-steep 7-degree angles in my apartment parking lot. Yes, I know that's wimpy--I'm old and inflexible, okay? If you're lucky, maybe I'll have pictures. Hopefully not of a trip to the hospital.
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, November 30, 2006
The Frost Giant's Daughter
I'm apologizing in advance, because this post is pretty much a repeat of the one last year about how people can’t drive when it’s cold. Not surprisingly, I really can't complain enough. Why is it that in this dumb town, whenever the weather is rumored to freeze, people completely lose their abilities to make rational decisions when sitting near the wheel of a car? Last night, I went over to watch a movie with Kerry (funnily enough, it was An Inconvenient Truth). He lives about five minutes away, and that's if the lights are bad. But last night, the traffic idiocy was such that my trip took fifteen fucking minutes--all because the mercury dropped down to 45 degrees. Every four-way stop featured retarded jackoffs simultaneously barreling into the intersections as if right-of-way rules have never existed. Imagine a bunch of near-sighted old people on acid driving bumper cars, and this is a little bit like what happens here every goddamn winter. I'm not saying I am the best driver, and frankly, I am terrified of driving on ice, but at least I error on the side of caution. These other assholes, though... it's like they forget/ignore all prior knowledge and experience of physics, traffic decorum and common sense.
I wish I lived in Hawaii.
--The Robo-Pirate
I wish I lived in Hawaii.
--The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Ulysses
I should write about Darth Vato's trip to Austin. So here's the short of it.
The tread ripped off a tire near Itasca. We changed it, and made it to Austin in time for Kerry to buy a Les Paul at a vintage shop. We ate Cuban food. We played at Headhunters. It was a good show. We went back to motel, and the next day, Kerry took the Grampus to get new tires. He found out it needs about $1100 worth of repairs. Then we drove home. Someone parked their truck in the space where the trailer goes. I wrote him a snooty note. He moved his car. The End.
Actually, that's the long of it. Here's how it went. We got a flat and fixed it. Kerry bought a guitar. The show was good.
But here's what I'd rather write about: all the scattered thoughts/songs/pictures that cycled through my head today.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse"
This is a crappy NOFX song off 46 or 47 Songs That Weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums. Though I'd like to, I can't actually listen to it, because it's on my broken iPod, and my computer here at work has a broken headphone jack. Thus, one single half-line continues to bounce around my head indefinitely.
"The Space Jockey"
This is the weird fossilized alien thing in the spaceship where Kane found the xenomorph eggs in Alien. It's gross and thinking about it gives me the willies. And I can't not ponder it. Why is it fused to that weird turntable/telescope thing?
"Busey and the Beach"
I watched this episode of Entourage last night. It's the one where Turtle knocks over this ridiculous sculpture of Gary Busey's. Then later, there's this party in Malibu thrown by that eel Josh Weinstien, and Busy later pours a bucket of water on Turtle's head. He also tells Ari, "you're a gut maggot, without any guts." Ari goes, "you're going to spin right off this planet, Gary." This episode has a lot of good lines in it, and Busey is so fucking weird, which makes it one of my favorites. Also, Monica Keena looks swollen.
"IO"
This has to do with work. It's boring.
"So tell me, Luke... What's a Friday night like in Fantasy Land for you? Do you meet up with the Care Bears and cruise around in that cloud car?"
This is a line from the comic I'm working on. I don't think it works very well, but I like it and can't seem to part with it. It's just really cumbersome. But not "Cumbersome," because then it would be completely terrible and a relic from 1994.
"Doritos"
This is a new Darth Vato song I've been working on this song for over a month. It's about being how pathetic and depressing life is when one just sits at home alone smoking pot. I'm having trouble with the second verse. Since I don't sing, my melodies always always sound half-baked. It's actually a pretty moronic song, which is par for the course of Darth Vato.
"How much I hate phones"
I hate them. A lot. Especially when they are ringing or other people are using them. This corresponds with how....
"I hope I get to be self-employed someday"
I have a really hard time tuning things out and focusing, and I feel like it makes my performance at work suffer. But why should I be the "special needs" employee? Just because I get bothered by other people's meetings and phone calls doesn't mean I should be allowed to separate myself. But I really do bristle whenever someone is on the phone longer than necessary. You become painfully aware of everyone's verbal tics when you hear them several times a day for extensive periods of times. I recently read this book about an austisic teenager called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. In that book, he talks about how he becomes overwhelmed by everyone's voices, and I can totally relate to this.
"The Asteroid"
Apparently, there is an asteroid that has a 1 in 50,000 chance of hitting the Earth in like 2029. That's a pretty good chance--better than winning the lottery or even that stupid Chili's Guest Satisfaction Survey. NASA is trying to come up with a plan, and not surprisingly, one of the plans involves landing an astronaut on the asteroid and somehow causing it to change its trajectory like three degrees or something. This is all based upon what Kerry told me; I tried to watch it on CNN.com, but what the idiot reporter lady wanted to talk about was how she imagined Bruce Willis might be interested or something. I don't know, because I quit watching. It really pissed me off. Here, I wanted some information, and all this fucking bitch could do was be a fucking moron. If I wanted this kind of fluff, I'd hit myself in the head with a brick and get my news from E! Online. All of this has made me consider that:
"CNN is fucking useless to me."
I don't want to watch a video that has a 20 second ad tacked to the front of it. It's part of why I like to read things. Thanks for not helping me out, CNN. Maybe you can get together with Apple and make more iPods that quit working.
"Would I rather be a dolphin or a dog?"
This is a tough call. Domesticated dogs have it pretty sweet. Everything is exciting for a dog, and nothing seems to rival dogs in experiencing pure joy. However, dolphins are highly intelligent. And I love being underwater. And they team up and beat the shit out of sharks. Still a toss up.
"Is 'Luke or Han?' an appropriate question for a dude to ask a girl on a first date?"
Probably not. But it should be.
"But anyway, what if he askes and she says, 'Luke'?"
Then you should never call her again. Any girl who would pick Luke over Han is probably prone to melodrama. And if you're a dude who hopes that she'll say Luke because you're a nice guy and Luke's a nice guy, well, we know how nice guys finish.
"I hope our show at Fitz's is good on Thursday."
Indeed. Darth Vato is playing at Fitzgerald's again on Thanksgiving night in the first slot. Hopefully this turns out well. Hopefully I have shit enough before hand so as not to feel bloated and tired.
"How'd I get so far into debt?"
Rhetorical question.
"How'd I get this fat?"
Again. Pointless to ask. Beer, pretty much.
"Why does working out suck?"
Because I'm out of shape. And it's hard.
"Why does my brother like Avenged Sevenfold?"
It's embarrassing.
"What if I had gotten good grades in college?"
Then I'd probably have the stress of a more successful job.
"Will I ever get my tattoo finished?"
Only time will tell. Gayest self-answer ever. Which really means, "probably never."
"Does my failure to anticipate the plot twists of the current Astonishing X-Men story arc mean that I am not as perceptive as I think I am?"
This probably will leave most people scratching their heads. I include this because I often question my own perceived intelligence, especially when I miss the hints to major plot revelations in movies and books. For instance, in hindsight, the end of the Sixth Sense was totally obvious, yet I was among the many who was totally surprised. I did pick up on Amanda's impending doom in Saw III, but the clues weren't exactly subtle. As for the comic mentioned above, understanding it required a lot of research on preceding backstory. Basically, this malevolent psychic entity called Cassandra Nova has caused a bunch of illusions, in the process incapacitating the X-Men one by one. Her goal is to use one of them to transfer her essence from this blob into--you know what? Who fucking cares? I read this title because Joss Whedon's dialogue is the best, not because the plots make any sense..
"Maybe I should work on my comic book."
But when would I drink and sleep? I guess during work.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse."
See? Still there.
"What's the difference between Monet and Manet?"
You'd think I'd have learned this in college, but the fact is, I really didn't learn much of anything in college.
"Flights are expensive."
"I hate the Dallas Cowboys."
"I hate that Dallas Cowboy fans quote Larry the Cable Guy."
"I hate 1310 The Ticket."
"I hate the Colts for losing to the Cowboys."
"I hate that I ever think about football, even for two seconds."
"Having a band that can't tour constantly is kind a of a bummer."
I've been thinking about this one for three years. Oh sure, we go out of town a couple times a month on average, but never for more than a weekend. If you want to make music your life, your biggest obstacle will be debt. It's amazing how cheaply one can live if one does not have to pay on student loans, credit cards or vehicle notes. When I worked at Chili's, I made around $10/hr, which basically worked out to $1600 a month. My current rent and utilities, in the most expensive and nicest apartment I've lived in, are under $700 per month. When I examine the choices I have made over the years, the only ones I regret are the ones that were the most expensive. Dumb dumb dumb. And what's funny is that I have never used my degrees for anything.
"This one Garfield strip."
I know. It's not cool to like Garfield, and I'm not really a fan anymore, but there is one strip where Garfield leaps at Jon's cheeseburger, and Jon says "Stop right there." And Garfield is left suspended in mid-air, his mouth crossed in an X of perplexion. Jon says, "Sometimes that's all a cat ever understands." This always killed me when I was a kid, and it still makes me smile. I like it because it shows how every cartoon, even a hack-job like Garfield, indulges in absurdities that don't translate nearly as well in other media. And there's also the implication that a cat understands anything. Or rather, obeys anything. I love cats, but c'mon, it's their world. We just live in it. They are the embodiment of aloofness.
No One Wants to Play Sega with Harrison Ford
Brandon Bird is one of my favorite artists, and this is one of my favorite paintings. Though it's easy to get burned out on pop culture tweaks, his are always surreal, wry, and spot-on.
"Science Friction."
Though this is probably also the name of a porno, it's also the name of a Hot Wheels car I had as a kid. It was maroonish, with an orange laser cannon on the roof.
"Transformers, as a concept, is kind of stupid. The level of belief suspension is not for the faint of heart."
But I guess that's why it's a cartoon, right? I hate what adulthood can do to one's imagination.
"Heroes is awesome."
Next to Entourage, this is my favorite show. Though I'm relieved as to how Monday's episode ended, I'm now frustrated for a bunch of new reasons.
I could go on. I love to backtrack through thought patterns, and looking back at this list is interesting when I consider the intangible threads between each item. As I sit here excited at the prospect of my work week ending on Today, I hope that someday, I'll make my living doing this sort of thing. Not because I'm lazy (okay, maybe a little bit), but because it's a lot easier for me to be passionate about thinking and writing than it is anything else. For those of you who are able to do this, (Heather Armstrong, I'm looking at you), I am totally jealous. God bless you, and may your ad revenue continue to roll in until the internet collapses or that asteroids collides with the Earth.
--The Robo-Pirate
The tread ripped off a tire near Itasca. We changed it, and made it to Austin in time for Kerry to buy a Les Paul at a vintage shop. We ate Cuban food. We played at Headhunters. It was a good show. We went back to motel, and the next day, Kerry took the Grampus to get new tires. He found out it needs about $1100 worth of repairs. Then we drove home. Someone parked their truck in the space where the trailer goes. I wrote him a snooty note. He moved his car. The End.
Actually, that's the long of it. Here's how it went. We got a flat and fixed it. Kerry bought a guitar. The show was good.
But here's what I'd rather write about: all the scattered thoughts/songs/pictures that cycled through my head today.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse"
This is a crappy NOFX song off 46 or 47 Songs That Weren't Good Enough for Our Other Albums. Though I'd like to, I can't actually listen to it, because it's on my broken iPod, and my computer here at work has a broken headphone jack. Thus, one single half-line continues to bounce around my head indefinitely.
"The Space Jockey"
This is the weird fossilized alien thing in the spaceship where Kane found the xenomorph eggs in Alien. It's gross and thinking about it gives me the willies. And I can't not ponder it. Why is it fused to that weird turntable/telescope thing?
"Busey and the Beach"
I watched this episode of Entourage last night. It's the one where Turtle knocks over this ridiculous sculpture of Gary Busey's. Then later, there's this party in Malibu thrown by that eel Josh Weinstien, and Busy later pours a bucket of water on Turtle's head. He also tells Ari, "you're a gut maggot, without any guts." Ari goes, "you're going to spin right off this planet, Gary." This episode has a lot of good lines in it, and Busey is so fucking weird, which makes it one of my favorites. Also, Monica Keena looks swollen.
"IO"
This has to do with work. It's boring.
"So tell me, Luke... What's a Friday night like in Fantasy Land for you? Do you meet up with the Care Bears and cruise around in that cloud car?"
This is a line from the comic I'm working on. I don't think it works very well, but I like it and can't seem to part with it. It's just really cumbersome. But not "Cumbersome," because then it would be completely terrible and a relic from 1994.
"Doritos"
This is a new Darth Vato song I've been working on this song for over a month. It's about being how pathetic and depressing life is when one just sits at home alone smoking pot. I'm having trouble with the second verse. Since I don't sing, my melodies always always sound half-baked. It's actually a pretty moronic song, which is par for the course of Darth Vato.
"How much I hate phones"
I hate them. A lot. Especially when they are ringing or other people are using them. This corresponds with how....
"I hope I get to be self-employed someday"
I have a really hard time tuning things out and focusing, and I feel like it makes my performance at work suffer. But why should I be the "special needs" employee? Just because I get bothered by other people's meetings and phone calls doesn't mean I should be allowed to separate myself. But I really do bristle whenever someone is on the phone longer than necessary. You become painfully aware of everyone's verbal tics when you hear them several times a day for extensive periods of times. I recently read this book about an austisic teenager called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. In that book, he talks about how he becomes overwhelmed by everyone's voices, and I can totally relate to this.
"The Asteroid"
Apparently, there is an asteroid that has a 1 in 50,000 chance of hitting the Earth in like 2029. That's a pretty good chance--better than winning the lottery or even that stupid Chili's Guest Satisfaction Survey. NASA is trying to come up with a plan, and not surprisingly, one of the plans involves landing an astronaut on the asteroid and somehow causing it to change its trajectory like three degrees or something. This is all based upon what Kerry told me; I tried to watch it on CNN.com, but what the idiot reporter lady wanted to talk about was how she imagined Bruce Willis might be interested or something. I don't know, because I quit watching. It really pissed me off. Here, I wanted some information, and all this fucking bitch could do was be a fucking moron. If I wanted this kind of fluff, I'd hit myself in the head with a brick and get my news from E! Online. All of this has made me consider that:
"CNN is fucking useless to me."
I don't want to watch a video that has a 20 second ad tacked to the front of it. It's part of why I like to read things. Thanks for not helping me out, CNN. Maybe you can get together with Apple and make more iPods that quit working.
"Would I rather be a dolphin or a dog?"
This is a tough call. Domesticated dogs have it pretty sweet. Everything is exciting for a dog, and nothing seems to rival dogs in experiencing pure joy. However, dolphins are highly intelligent. And I love being underwater. And they team up and beat the shit out of sharks. Still a toss up.
"Is 'Luke or Han?' an appropriate question for a dude to ask a girl on a first date?"
Probably not. But it should be.
"But anyway, what if he askes and she says, 'Luke'?"
Then you should never call her again. Any girl who would pick Luke over Han is probably prone to melodrama. And if you're a dude who hopes that she'll say Luke because you're a nice guy and Luke's a nice guy, well, we know how nice guys finish.
"I hope our show at Fitz's is good on Thursday."
Indeed. Darth Vato is playing at Fitzgerald's again on Thanksgiving night in the first slot. Hopefully this turns out well. Hopefully I have shit enough before hand so as not to feel bloated and tired.
"How'd I get so far into debt?"
Rhetorical question.
"How'd I get this fat?"
Again. Pointless to ask. Beer, pretty much.
"Why does working out suck?"
Because I'm out of shape. And it's hard.
"Why does my brother like Avenged Sevenfold?"
It's embarrassing.
"What if I had gotten good grades in college?"
Then I'd probably have the stress of a more successful job.
"Will I ever get my tattoo finished?"
Only time will tell. Gayest self-answer ever. Which really means, "probably never."
"Does my failure to anticipate the plot twists of the current Astonishing X-Men story arc mean that I am not as perceptive as I think I am?"
This probably will leave most people scratching their heads. I include this because I often question my own perceived intelligence, especially when I miss the hints to major plot revelations in movies and books. For instance, in hindsight, the end of the Sixth Sense was totally obvious, yet I was among the many who was totally surprised. I did pick up on Amanda's impending doom in Saw III, but the clues weren't exactly subtle. As for the comic mentioned above, understanding it required a lot of research on preceding backstory. Basically, this malevolent psychic entity called Cassandra Nova has caused a bunch of illusions, in the process incapacitating the X-Men one by one. Her goal is to use one of them to transfer her essence from this blob into--you know what? Who fucking cares? I read this title because Joss Whedon's dialogue is the best, not because the plots make any sense..
"Maybe I should work on my comic book."
But when would I drink and sleep? I guess during work.
"Zyclone B. Bathhouse."
See? Still there.
"What's the difference between Monet and Manet?"
You'd think I'd have learned this in college, but the fact is, I really didn't learn much of anything in college.
"Flights are expensive."
"I hate the Dallas Cowboys."
"I hate that Dallas Cowboy fans quote Larry the Cable Guy."
"I hate 1310 The Ticket."
"I hate the Colts for losing to the Cowboys."
"I hate that I ever think about football, even for two seconds."
"Having a band that can't tour constantly is kind a of a bummer."
I've been thinking about this one for three years. Oh sure, we go out of town a couple times a month on average, but never for more than a weekend. If you want to make music your life, your biggest obstacle will be debt. It's amazing how cheaply one can live if one does not have to pay on student loans, credit cards or vehicle notes. When I worked at Chili's, I made around $10/hr, which basically worked out to $1600 a month. My current rent and utilities, in the most expensive and nicest apartment I've lived in, are under $700 per month. When I examine the choices I have made over the years, the only ones I regret are the ones that were the most expensive. Dumb dumb dumb. And what's funny is that I have never used my degrees for anything.
"This one Garfield strip."
I know. It's not cool to like Garfield, and I'm not really a fan anymore, but there is one strip where Garfield leaps at Jon's cheeseburger, and Jon says "Stop right there." And Garfield is left suspended in mid-air, his mouth crossed in an X of perplexion. Jon says, "Sometimes that's all a cat ever understands." This always killed me when I was a kid, and it still makes me smile. I like it because it shows how every cartoon, even a hack-job like Garfield, indulges in absurdities that don't translate nearly as well in other media. And there's also the implication that a cat understands anything. Or rather, obeys anything. I love cats, but c'mon, it's their world. We just live in it. They are the embodiment of aloofness.
No One Wants to Play Sega with Harrison Ford
Brandon Bird is one of my favorite artists, and this is one of my favorite paintings. Though it's easy to get burned out on pop culture tweaks, his are always surreal, wry, and spot-on.
"Science Friction."
Though this is probably also the name of a porno, it's also the name of a Hot Wheels car I had as a kid. It was maroonish, with an orange laser cannon on the roof.
"Transformers, as a concept, is kind of stupid. The level of belief suspension is not for the faint of heart."
But I guess that's why it's a cartoon, right? I hate what adulthood can do to one's imagination.
"Heroes is awesome."
Next to Entourage, this is my favorite show. Though I'm relieved as to how Monday's episode ended, I'm now frustrated for a bunch of new reasons.
I could go on. I love to backtrack through thought patterns, and looking back at this list is interesting when I consider the intangible threads between each item. As I sit here excited at the prospect of my work week ending on Today, I hope that someday, I'll make my living doing this sort of thing. Not because I'm lazy (okay, maybe a little bit), but because it's a lot easier for me to be passionate about thinking and writing than it is anything else. For those of you who are able to do this, (Heather Armstrong, I'm looking at you), I am totally jealous. God bless you, and may your ad revenue continue to roll in until the internet collapses or that asteroids collides with the Earth.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Doppelganger
If you go to this week's Onion A.V. Club, there is an interview with one of my heroes, Chuck Klosterman. Read the interview if you want, but the most important thing is that he looks a lot like my friend this guy.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*That guys is my friend, Walker. He writes songs and hangs around the bar I work at, and is an all-around nice guy.
--The Robo-Pirate
*That guys is my friend, Walker. He writes songs and hangs around the bar I work at, and is an all-around nice guy.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A message from TXDOT
My dad, a recovering technophobe who is finally joining the rest of us in the AGE OF COMPUTERS, sent me this forward today. It's a safety warning. Rather than forward it, I thought I'd post it here. That way, ONLY MY READERS WILL BE SAFE. I think that logic went into writing the Bible. But anyway, feel free to pass around a link to the Robo-Pirate or just tell your friends why you shouldn’t use cruise control on wet roads yourself. If they are skeptical, make sure to tell them you read it on the internet.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
A couple of comments:A 36 year old Kilgore, TX resident had an accident several weeks ago and totaled
her car. She was traveling between Gladewater and Kilgore. It was raining,
though not excessively, when her car suddenly began to hydro-plane and literally
flew through the air. She was not seriously injured but very stunned at the
sudden occurrence!When she explained to the highway patrolman what had happened he told her something that every driver should know - NEVER DRIVE IN THE RAIN WITH YOUR CRUISE CONTROL ON.
She thought she was being cautious by setting the cruise control and maintaining a safe, consistent speed in the rain, but the highway patrolman told her that if the cruise control is on and your car begins to hydro-plane (what happens when your tires lose contact with the pavement), it will accelerate to a higher rate of speed and you will take off like an airplane. She told the patrolman that was exactly what had occurred.
The patrolman said this warning should be listed, on the driver's seat
sun-visor - NEVER USE THE CRUISE CONTROL WHEN THE PAVEMENT IS WET OR ICY.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
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